


come and get your love

by tremontaine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is probably what people mean by "the honeymoon period".</p>
            </blockquote>





	come and get your love

 

The church bells woke him, a clamour of noise that shimmered in the air. You could tell, even though the blinds were closed, that outside it was a beautiful day, and wasn’t that fitting? Bucky hadn’t woken up feeling this good in a long while. A little wrung out – and his bruised ribs ached – but what a night, after everything, after all the weeks of wondering, of hope, of growing closer to her again one conversation at a time. And now Natasha was –

Gone. Hmm. He propped himself up on his elbow and frowned at the empty expanse of bed beside him. An ugly little voice in the back of his mind was muttering about pity fucks and trying very hard to convince him that she’d left; that, even if you disregarded the times he’d tried to kill her, a girl like that would never want anything permanent with a common soldier without a cent to his name – and rather frequently not even a name – who couldn’t always sleep nights and who had scars most people couldn’t look at without flinching.

The rest of his mind, much more sensibly, supposed that she’d gone to the bathroom. Bucky pushed the covers aside and stood up, stretching gingerly, a hand pressed to his aching ribs, before he made for the bedroom door. He couldn’t remember where he’d dropped his duffel yesterday, but it wasn’t in here. Somewhere by the door she’d stepped out of her underwear and he’d pressed her up against the wall and gone to his knees and – anyway.

The living room of the safehouse was an awkward little space that, despite being impersonally and sparsely furnished, managed somehow to seem cramped just the same. She’d gathered yesterday’s clothes up and folded them neatly over the back of the couch. That was ridiculously charming. He put yesterday’s underwear back on, thinking vaguely that if someone broke in he didn’t want to have to fight them naked, and paused to listen for her.

“Uh huh. Yes.”

Kitchen. She was in the kitchen. He wandered over to the door and leaned against it: two mugs were sitting by the coffee machine, and Natasha was curled in a chair at the table. Her hair was hanging over her face, his t-shirt from yesterday long and baggy on her slender frame, her knees tucked up against her chest, bare feet on the edge of the seat. She’d propped an elbow on the table to rest her head against her hand, her face turned away from him, and the sunlight glinted on the metal casing of her phone.

“No,” she said. “Nothing like that. I think it would be good to lie low for a couple of days. We’ve got a perfectly decent cover, we might as well play tourists a bit longer. I don’t want to attract attention by vanishing. It’s supposed to sound like a vacation.” She laughed. “I need some down time, and this is perfect. I’m sure Barnes does too.” Then, after a short silence, she made a derisive little noise. “Don’t make me laugh. Steve, you’re both as bad as each other. I couldn’t get you to admit you need a break if I held a gun on you and told you the world would end if you didn’t.” But she sounded impossibly fond. It made Bucky smile. “All right, the 27th then. Look, when we get back, come over one evening, I’ll make you dinner. OK. You too. See you soon.”

She hung up and straightened up, her mouth curling into a triumphant little smile. Sunlight struck gold glints in her hair, the heavy curls tumbling lank and slightly greasy over her shoulders, and there were dark circles under her eyes: yes, she definitely needed a break.

“That’s three weeks, till the 27th.”

Natasha jumped a little. “Oh! Morning.” She smiled at him, sweet and slow and a little sleepy, and that ugly little voice shrivelled up and died in the face of it. That was not a we’re-just-friends-and-I-slept-with-you-because-I-felt-bad-that-you’re-hopelessly-in-love-with-me smile. That was an it-makes-me-happy-every-time-I-look-at-you smile. Bucky should know. He got it every time he caught sight of her. She beckoned to him, and he kissed her sweet and leisurely, remembering last night, imagining their future.

“We’re here for another five days,” she said, her fingers rasping through the stubble on his cheeks. “And then home, where, yes, another two weeks off call unless the world ends.”

Bucky kissed her again. “God, that’s forever.” Three weeks to spend with her…

“It’s no time at all.” She touched her thumb to his lips, and he caught her wrist gently and turned his head and kissed her palm.

“I remember when three hours with you was a luxury I didn’t dare to hope for.”

Natasha drew a breath in sharply. He looked at her, surprised, and she promptly thumped him.

“Ow!” He dodged back, laughing.

“You asshole. I didn’t know if you remembered.”

But she had come to him anyway… Bucky knelt by her chair, smiling at her. “I didn’t at first. And by the time I did I was halfways in love with you again already.”

“Oh.” She looked away, biting her lip; there was a faint blush on her cheeks. Then, suddenly, her mouth pursed: he knew that look, she was anxious about something. “I suppose that – means I should apologise for –”

“Tasha,” he said. “Objectively speaking, Stark was right, and so were you.”

She blinked twice: that was astonishment. “Have you ever dared say that to Steve?” Looking amused.

“Well yeah, once I had enough of myself back to look at it logically.” Bucky stood up and kissed her again, quick and fierce. “I wouldn’t have trusted me. Or him, maybe… But that’s Steve for you. Coffee?”

“Yes please.” Natasha put her legs down at last and crossed them at the knee. He turned to the machine, his back to her, and knew she didn’t mean the coffee when she said, “Thank you.” Of course she’d worry about that… whole mess. Bucky’s feelings on it were not exactly easy to categorise either, but he could hardly blame her for thinking that neither she nor Steve would ever get the man (men?) they’d each known back in any meaningful way. She knew, better than anyone, the precariousness of identities, memories, self. In her shoes, he probably would have acted – and advised Steve – the same way.

And of course, that total understanding of each other was a significant part of why they were here now.

“Five days left here,” he said thoughtfully, fetching the milk out of the fridge. “Do we actually need to do anything?”

“No. Well, show our faces a little. Wander round the town and pretend we’re enjoying our vacation.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “And stay in bed the other twenty hours in the day?” He turned around as he said it, which meant he caught sight of her blushing as red as her hair, and nearly dropped a mug in surprise and delight. But she wouldn’t look at him. Had he said something wrong?

“There’s, you know, books and things. If you.” She waved a hand.

“Books and things?” Bucky was incredulous. And a little hurt. “I’ve been waiting eight years for us to find a safe place, and to have the time, to take you to bed _properly_ and you want to spend a week reading?”

“Properly,” she scoffed, as if – almost – defensive? “What’s not proper about…” She waved her hand again, and she was still blushing furiously. Suddenly Bucky started to wonder, a strange squirming sensation in his stomach, if she was… if she’d ever…

“I’ve never even really eaten you out,” he said, and he hadn’t thought she could blush any harder, but yeah, she was worse at this than Steve, and not much more experienced. Was he – had he been…? He couldn’t remember. _Oh my love_. And yet, selfishly, jealously: thank god no one had come along and shown her how much better she could do…

“So you’ve got a list?” Natasha took the coffee he passed her with a challenging look. The question was probably supposed to be mocking, but it came out curious.

“Yes,” he said.

She swallowed, hard. “What’s on it?”

Bucky grinned. “There’s not much I don’t want to do,” he said, “with you. What’s on yours?”

Natasha folded her hands around her mug and shrugged. Was it a good idea to push her? He didn’t know. But she took a gulp of coffee and then put her shoulders back, steeling herself to something, and said, “That. You – oral. And – your hands. And I want – to ride you. And maybe – anal. If you wanted.”

“I’ve never actually done it with a girl,” he said thoughtfully, “but I _love_ getting fucked.” There had been a guy in London, dark haired and smiling, with gentle hands; Bucky couldn’t remember his name. That felt like a betrayal. They had been friends, good friends even.

Natasha made a funny noise in her throat. “OK,” she said. “I mean – wow, I didn’t realise it would be so weird to talk about it.” She laughed a little, and disappeared behind her mug again, collecting herself. _If you wanted_ , almost like she was offering it him in exchange for some immensely selfish request, like his mouth on her. It was how shy she sounded that was killing him – how young. God, he really was a dirty old man, wasn’t he. But if he ever found out that SHIELD had sent her on a honeytrap he would strap Fury to a table and carve his organs out one by one. Then again, she’d be angry with him if he did.

What to say? What to do, more to the point. Suddenly Bucky was kind of angry. God, but he was going to fuck that defensive uncertainty out of her if it was the last thing he did. He was hers, body and soul, and she had no business being afraid he wouldn’t want her, or would be disappointed, or whatever nonsense it was that was going through her head. He watched her as she sipped her coffee, watched the fall of her hair and the curl of her fingers around the mug, the line of her shoulders, the shape of her mouth. He wanted to make her happy: that was the main, most important thing.

“So,” he said.

“Hmm?” She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Come and take a shower with me.”

+++

Touching was much, much easier than talking. Natasha had thought that she’d kept her memories of him safe, kept them perfect, bright and untarnished, but last night had begun to prove her wrong, and this morning even more so. She remembered how gentle his hands were but not how strong or how big; knew that he was a foot taller than she, but had forgotten the delicious twist of nervousness it put in her stomach to stand so close to him and have to look up into his face. She remembered his scars, but not how sensitive the surrounding skin was, how he groaned softly when she kissed and touched it. She remembered his smile, and the look of his face when flushed and changed by passion, but not the deep burr in his voice when he was aroused, or the unashamed noises he made, urging her on to explore him.

She had never thought that they would have to talk. She had imagined, these last weeks, that they would come together and click perfectly, like puzzle pieces settling into place, and all would be well: an instinctive understanding of each other, bedroom scenes all softly lit with artfully draped sheets, like a Hollywood movie. But there was nothing discreetly shadowed about this: the slide of his hands over her body, slick with water and lather, the heat of him, the rub of his wet chest hair under her fingers, and the way he turned his head and made a noise in his throat like a great, contented cat when she smoothed his hair back from his face. When she kissed him he smiled into it, and when she rubbed up against him she could feel his cock hardening against her stomach, and when she played with his nipples he braced his hands against the wall at either side of her head and said, deep and a little raspy, “Quit teasing.”

“Or what?” Natasha laughed softly, rubbed circles around his nipples with her thumbs. Oh how lovely this was. Arousal was throbbing through her, her skin pink with the heat of the water, and there was nothing to be shy about, or worried about, or blush over. Here in his arms she could be and do and say anything: anything at all.

“Or I’m gonna come, and you might regret that later on.” He bit his lip, grinning.

Natasha pressed a kiss to his chin. “Yeah? How many times –”

“No idea anymore,” he admitted.

“So we’ll have to find out,” she said, and wrapped her fingers around his cock: hard and hot, the skin soft; she traced the veins with a fingertip, felt him shudder, heard him gasp. Those strong thighs were tense, and his stomach quivered when she stroked him. “By, you know, extensive experimentation.”

“Natasha,” he said, his hips stuttering into her hands, beautiful, beautiful. “Tasha, sweetheart, god your hands feel good, I love you, I, you’re everything, my love, I missed you…” Sweet dirty nonsense, on and on, until finally she felt him twitch and swell and pulse. She caught his spunk on her hand, fascinated, rapt. His flushed face, the way his eyes were screwed shut, the twist of his mouth… she waited till he looked at her again, his breathing slowing, and then she brought her hand to her mouth and tasted him for the first time, or what she thought was the first time: salty, bitter, not really pleasant, but not unpleasant either. A shudder went through him from head to toe, and she was fairly sure then that his stamina was the least of their worries.

But he kissed her, deep and slow, his hands dropping to her hips, wandering up her sides. When he cupped her breasts in his hands she shivered and gasped, watching him caress her, the way her nipples hardened, the soft flesh denting under his fingers. It made her breathless to be touched like this, her body throbbing, aching. He had an intent little smile, now, watching her reactions, cataloguing what touches she liked, what made her moan: no hesitance, or awkwardness, and always gentle, his touch only growing firmer when he was sure she liked it. She’d been too new at this and too overwhelmed by it to realise, Before, just how experienced he really was, but now it was obvious.

“How many other girls were there?” She thought back to the kitchen. “How many boys?”

“You want a headcount?”

“Names, ranks, serial numbers, all preferred sex acts and how you rated them.”

He laughed. “Mary McGinty,” he said thoughtfully, and pressed a kiss to her temple; then he slid, a little awkwardly in the narrow shower stall, to his knees, splayed at either side of her feet. They were probably soaking the bathroom. “I was seventeen. She wasn’t my first, first, but she was the first girl who let me put my cock inside her.” The crudity made her breathless, and her hands came up to grip his hair almost involuntarily when he put his mouth on her breast. Natasha arched her back away from the wall into his hands on her flanks and – well, keened, feeling the tug of his mouth and the throb of arousal that went through her body to her – her cunt. He licked and sucked and teased her for hours, first one breast and then the other, till she was writhing in his hands, till his touch was all she felt. “She was four years older than me,” he said, his hot breath on her wet skin torturous, “and she was married – she was the sister of a friend of mine – and I’d had a crush on her when we were kids. When she decided I’d grown up handsome enough to notice it was better than praise from god himself.”

“What happened?” He was nuzzling at her skin, in no kind of a hurry, his stubble scraping her breasts deliciously. She threaded her fingers in that thick wet hair, unable to move, not wanting to move. “Her husband find out?”

“No.” He laughed quietly. “I met someone else.”

“Who?”

“Claire Leery.”

“Did it last?”

“No.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Claire was not that sort of girl.”

Did that mean she was? Natasha licked her lips. But – but all these smart, experienced, clever girls, who had surely not fumbled through it, and would have known how to… do things… “So –”

“Hey,” he murmured. “Can we not? I don’t remember the next one. Or the one after that. There was a Connie, but that was much later.” He was smiling though. “Only one girl left in the world for me…”

“That’s sweet.” She wanted to _know_ , dammit. He had had everything of her. She needed balance back. An equal footing. The light was very bright even through the shower curtain, and the noise of the water running very loud, clattering angrily on the floor of the stall, and on his left arm. Natasha trembled.

“Sweet?” He pulled back, sitting on his heels. “I love you, you little idiot.”

“I’m naked in the shower with you and you’re insulting me?” Her hands had dropped to her sides; she crossed her arms over her chest, and then shifted them so she was covering her breasts, because the other way had been like presenting them to him to – whatever.

He opened his mouth. His eyes were very pale and very wide. The mission had put bruises under his eyes, lines in his face: he really did need a vacation, it wasn’t just for show, what she’d told Steve. He needed to be careful with himself. And he was injured; not so badly that their handlers would have even noticed, Before, but this wasn’t Before.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. He was kneeling naked in a cramped little shower stall, wasting hot water, looking up at her like she was his whole world. Nervousness and fear unspooled into tenderness. My love, she thought, and then, my Soldier. God, this was exhausting. She felt as though someone had carved her emotions out of her and put them on a roller coaster and left her with the aftereffects. 

“Nothing,” she said. “I just – I – this.” She took a deep breath. _If you want him, you’re going to have to be honest with him. And if you want to keep him, you’re going to have to keep being honest with him_. (Thanks, Laura.) “I’m a mess,” she said bluntly. “I don’t trust people and I barely trust myself and I don’t know how to – I don’t know how people do relationships. And you do and it scares me because that means you have all the power.”

He looked away. Then he said, “I don’t remember their names, Nat. How is that _power_?”

She shrugged, helplessly. He sighed; then he leaned forwards, resting his head against her stomach, below her folded arms. After a second, she put them around his shoulders, holding him close.

“It scares me,” she said again. “Situations I can’t control scare me. Situations I can’t control where I have no experience and very limited knowledge scare me even more.” It wasn’t a mission, but that was the only language she knew how to speak, right now.

“You scare me,” he said. “I’m not – what you deserve, and” – but there she started laughing.

“What I deserve?” she said. “I deserve the Fridge. I deserve the ele-“ but she couldn’t finish that thought, not with him close.

“Don’t talk like that.” She’d made him angry, but he didn’t look up. “You’re a good person, Natasha, the best that I – Steve would have loved any version of me, even one that hated him. But you. When I knew I had your friendship again – when you came to me last night, I knew then that I’d made myself into someone worthwhile, because you’d never confuse the two.”

She wasn’t sure all the water dripping off her chin just now was from the shower. She reached up to wipe her face, push her hair back over her shoulders. “I’ve never fucked anyone else,” she said. It wasn’t so difficult to say after all. “I’ve dated other guys, and they’d touch me and I’d think, you could cut my throat in my sleep, or. Anything. And the one time there was a guy I trusted not to do that, a guy I trusted not to push, he didn’t want me. Or us, rather.” She sighed. “So you scare me witless, because I trust you and you want me. Us.”

He was silent for a little while. At last he said, “Come on.” He stood up, slowly, and kissed her. Sweet and gentle and careful movements as if she would spook if he weren’t careful. “Come on. Come back to bed, and we’ll just –”

“Cuddle? I don’t want to cuddle. I don’t need to be cuddled.” Anger made her brave. She put her hands on his chest and pushed at him. “I want all those things I said in the kitchen, and anything you can think of besides, and just about everything the entire porn industry has ever invented.” She wanted to learn how to give him a blowjob, and how to open him up and fuck him like he’d said, and she wanted to be fucked in every conceivable position that two people with unnatural athleticism could get themselves into. Tied down, and blindfolded, and for him to fuck her ass, and… but her limited imaginings were running out. And here he was treating her like a Victorian virgin on her wedding night. “I want to cook with you this evening and go out tomorrow and kiss you in public and sit in cafés reading with you and tell everyone we’re together. I want to make up for everything we’ve missed. You don’t need to handle me with kid gloves just because I was honest.”

And suddenly he had a look in his eye that made her a little nervous after all. “Don’t I?” He grinned. “But you’d like ‘em, kid gloves. Soft as anything on your skin.”

Natasha licked her lips. “Yeah?”

“God, yeah. Drive you crazy, I bet.”

Leather soft as butter on her bare skin, caressing her thighs, her stomach and sides, her breasts; playing with her nipples, or… “And you.”

“Heart’s own,” he said. “If you wore a pair of those gloves and did to me what you did earlier…”

Oh god. “Speaking of which,” said Natasha, struggling to keep her voice steady, “if you felt like reciprocating, I promise not to be weird again.”

Their noses bumped when he leaned in close; then he kissed her, wet and hot, with tongue, too, worried gently at her bottom lip and sucked on it, and it was a good thing he’d braced his hands on the wall again to either side of her because she needed something to hang on to. Her knees were jelly. When she arched up against him and sucked on his tongue he went a little unsteady himself.

“Little vixen,” he muttered, sent his hands wandering. “ _Vdova_. With your permission, Agent Romanov…”

“Lisichka was the dog,” she said shakily. “In space.”

“Beloved,” he said in Russian, with that atrocious accent that she loved. “What did I used to call you?” His knee between her thighs and the wall behind her held her up; his hands were busy elsewhere, stroking her, rolling a nipple between his fingers, and his mouth at her neck and the underside of her jaw was hot as a brand and probably, hopefully, leaving hickeys.

“Natalia,” she said. “My Natalia.”

“You are. You always have been.” He kissed and teased and caressed her until she was aching again, hot and boneless and malleable, entirely his. But he didn’t touch her cunt, and in the end she put her hand between her legs, though when he laughed in her ear she nearly stopped. But he kissed her earlobe and said, “Show me, please, I want to see it when you come,” and so…

He held her up when she came and nearly fell, arching her back helplessly, her feet sliding on the wet floor, and his kisses were the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

+++

“I could try shaving,” she said, rather doubtfully.

Bucky curled himself more comfortably into the v of her spread thighs and said, “Modern-day blue movies were a bit of a revelation, and not in a good way.”

Natasha giggled. “So what have you been getting off to all this time? Lauren Bacall smoking cigarettes in _The Big Sleep_?”

“You,” he said, stroking his thumb through those crisp red curls, combing them away from her slit. “The face you make when you come, how your head tips back and your eyes close; your neck all bare to me and your mouth open, like you’re waiting for a kiss… Sorry, is that creepy?”

“Christ, no,” she said, unsteadily, and he laughed.

“What have you been getting off to all this time?”

“Whatever,” she said, breathless: that was because he was nuzzling her cunt. “I just kind of. There _was_ this one photo, a long time ago, that kind of, burned itself into my brain.”

“What of?”

“Oh.” She was squirming now, restless, pressing back and up towards him, and he watched, fascinated, as she grew wetter under his gaze. He lapped it up, gently, feeling her writhe above him, kissed her labia, breathing in the smell of her. He hadn’t spent this much time in bed with anyone since 1945. There was a lot to be said for muscle memory, but for sheer sensory overload and revelling in things he hadn’t realised he’d forgotten he loved about sex, this might as well be his first time. Bucky licked at her, gently, delicately, tracing her swollen labia, drew circles around her clit, until she said, “ _James_ ,” in a voice he’d never heard from her before, not even in last night’s sweet, desperate frenzy. Well, if pearl-diving was what really drove her crazy, he was happy to oblige… the sheets went taut underneath him as she pulled at them, and he drew back, unwilling to have it end so soon.

“The photo?” Also he was curious.

“She’s in his lap,” Natasha blurted. “Facing him, in his lap, and his hands are huge on her back, just holding her to him, and she’s got her arms over his shoulders. And you can’t really tell if she’s holding his tie or if her hands are sort of tied with it. At first I thought it was really sexy, and now I can just stare at it for hours. The shadows, and how her hair falls over his shoulder.” Her face was a little dreamy, a little distant, flush of arousal on her cheekbones, her mouth swollen with kisses. Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her nipples were peaked and puffy from his fingers and mouth. Suddenly she laughed. “That’s not really what you asked, but it’s the first thing I thought of.”

“I’d like to see it,” he said.

“All right.” Natasha smiled at him, sweet and slow. God, he loved that smile. “What’s that for you?”

“Women in stockings, probably,” Bucky said. “God. I am not over those. Those inches of skin that were the only thing uncovered, the way it draws your eye… yeah. And during the war, Connie used to paint the line on the back of her calves – well, I used to paint it.” He grinned.

“They’re easy access, too.” She was dimpling at him.

“Get yourself some thigh highs sometime and come and sit on my face.” Her hands clenched in the sheets, and he laughed. “God, I can’t wait for that. How wet you’ll be, and the smell of you, and your thighs tight round my head. Play with your pretty tits and ride me till you can’t keep upright.”

Her eyes were very bright and very wild, her hands white-knuckled in the sheet, her breathing quick, the rise and fall of her chest entrancing. “Why not now?”

“Why not.” Bucky surged up to kiss her; then he was on his back on the mattress, and Natasha was swinging her leg over him, filling all his vision, all his world.

+++

The leaves crunched underfoot wherever you went in the little mountain town; there would be snow soon, up here, long black nights and short cold days. Natasha was glad that they would escape that, at any rate. She wanted to spend her miserable snowed-in days in the comfort of her own apartment…

Or in James’, she thought suddenly, wrapped up in his arms drinking hot tea and listening to his heartbeat under her ear. The silly, clichéd little imagining delighted her, and she tilted her head up and smiled into the sunlight.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, very close beside her, and she sighed and shivered. “They look happy.”

“They are,” Natasha said, and turned into his embrace. He kissed her temple, and she felt a happy little laugh run through him, both of them swaying with glee. All these months she had allowed herself to hope, and imagine, and dream, and now she was standing on a street corner in some distant alpine village with her face buried in his shoulder and his arms around her. 

+++

She was wet and soft and impossibly hot as he sank inside her, her body closing around him eagerly, and the way she wriggled her ass against him as she pushed back onto his cock nearly killed him.

“OK?”

“Yes,” she said, raising her head to answer him, craning back. They were sprawled across the breadth of the bed, her hands clenched in the sheets above her head, his body over hers covering her completely. All that strength and power, and she was lying here naked in his arms, caged in by his body, letting him have her. It should have made him humble; mostly it turned him on beyond belief. “Yes, oh, god, you’re perfect, perfect in me, and so big, I…” she squirmed up against him, caught and trapped in his arms, her eyes half-closed, biting her lip; Bucky had to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, his hips twitching against her, not wanting to move but unable to keep still. “Fuck me,” she said against his mouth, “please, I can’t stand it, James, James –”

No one called him that but her. Certainly no bed partner he’d ever had had ever called him that. It made him dizzy, breathless, even as he spread his knees a little more and started to move, and Christ but the way her body opened for him when he pushed in was Heaven.

“Jesus wept,” he rasped, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “Jesus, Natalia, stay like this forever.”

“I want to. I want everything with you.” She laughed, unsteady. “I want things with you I’m not even sure exist.”

“If they do I’ll get ‘em for you,” he promised. “Anything you ask…”

“Yes.” She moaned low in her throat, and then a bit louder, and when he picked up the pace a little and ground deeper inside her she made a noise on every thrust, sweet gasping noises like the breath was being shocked out of her, noises that filled up the whole room, obscenely, beautifully loud. Hours passed, or days; he was breathing raggedly, moaning, blind with pleasure, his hands slipping on her wet skin when he touched her, the flex of her body as she moved with him maddening, until at last he shifted a bit and she tilted her hips and suddenly she made a noise that utterly undid him, a shocked little cry halfway between surprise and overwhelming pleasure.

“Hah,” Bucky said, hoarse but triumphant. “Sweet spot. Knew – from behind – remember Reykjavik?” He kissed the nape of her neck, her bare shoulder, and pushed in again, rubbing her just right. No surprise this time; just pure delight. She was begging him, barely coherent, pushing back against him, and it made him wild, all his self-control unravelling. “Here.” Leaned all his weight on his left elbow and slid his shaking right hand under her hips, splayed across her lower abdomen, holding her at just that angle, tight to his body, and then he set about the business of making her scream.

“Reykjavik,” Natasha said in the sweet, drowsy aftermath, lying on his chest, her breasts soft against his side. Her leg was flung across his thigh, her cunt soft and damp against his skin, her pubic hair slightly scratchy. The warm washcloth they’d cleaned up with was lying on the floor; gross, probably, but he wasn’t leaving her embrace again for all the tea in China. “I remember. We’d caught some sleep, and you were spooning me, and I wanted you in me but I didn’t want to stop touching you long enough to get undressed.” She laughed softly.

“I remember staring at your shoulder blades, how you moved, thinking how soft your skin was and trying not to come too soon.”

That made her laugh too. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Nothing mattered more than making you feel good.”

“You always did. For a few minutes, with you, I was any normal girl in the world with a boyfriend who adored her, and who’d fall asleep in his arms every night…”

“Well,” Bucky said quietly. “I can give you the last two, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Natasha tweaked his nipple, making him jump and laugh. “Don’t think for a second I’m ever letting you go.”

+++

“Hmm!” Natasha brushed her hair out of her eyes, smiling. “Funny looking down at you.”

“Yeah?” James leaned back against the pillows, smiling back at her, slow and warm. “Kinda like this view myself.”

“Of course you do,” she said, “my breasts are in your face. Men.”

He burst out laughing, and she watched it transform his face in delight, all the grim memories and the solemnity wiped away, till she saw the boy Steve must have known and loved, a century ago. Had she known it was possible to laugh during sex? They hadn’t used to talk in bed, if they could even get a bed. Silence had been paramount, and even now she blamed her ability to read his microexpressions on those desperate trysts. But she didn’t want to think of them now; maybe not ever again. This was better….

Yes, much better. She squirmed a little, rocking against him, and felt his cock twitch inside her, heard him catch his breath. Then she looked down, her hands on his shoulders, her hair falling over her shoulders again, curls jumping a little when she moved, and watched in fascination, lifting up, sinking down, amazing that it fit, really, that this ridiculous way of procreating was so pleasurable. She clenched around him, experimentally, and when he moaned she did it again, trying to hold both the rhythm of her inner muscles and the rocking motion of her hips. But that was like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time, and she gave it up, laughing, and went back to fucking him. James was lax and loose-limbed beneath her, his hands on her waist gentle, just resting there sweetly, letting her play with him; her hair brushed over his chest and tangled with the short curls there.

“Natalia,” he said at last, and she shuddered convulsively, hearing her name in that lust-drunk voice. “My Natalia.”

Natasha looked up, shaking her hair back. Her face was hot and her thighs were trembling a little, her hands tight on his shoulders. She rubbed a thumb along one of the rills in his left arm and said, “My Soldier,” with a funny catch in her voice. He was so hot inside her, and so hard, and the drag of his cock against her walls was glorious, just glorious. She’d thought she was growing used to the size of him, but sitting on his cock like this just meant that gravity and her own weight drove him deeper than ever, and when she focussed on the sensation it threatened to overwhelm her. Not yet. Not yet.

“Come here,” he said, biting that wide, mobile, clever mouth: red and wet and swollen with kisses, it looked delectable. “Wanna kiss your tits.”

“Want to see you come,” she said. His eyes went wide, and his mouth rounded into a perfect, sinful o. “Want to feel you come inside me and watch your face, and then I want to sit here like this and see how long it takes before you can fuck me again.”

“Not long, if you keep talking,” he promised.

“Good,” she said. “Oh good. I love how it feels when you’re inside me, how you stretch me and – god, James. James.”

“Lean back,” he said. “Put your hands back – yeah – oh, fuck.” He laughed, his eyes closing. “No, come back. If I look at that view I’ll come.”

Natasha laughed too, looking down at herself: so exposed like this, her body arched back from him and all on display, right down to her cunt. His thighs were hot and strong under her hands, her fingers dug into the muscles, and distantly she thought it was a little embarrassing, the way her breasts were bouncing, but honestly she was too caught up in lust to really care. “Will you touch me?” she said. “I love how your hands feel…”

“Oh, here?” Her hips, ever so lightly.

“Don’t tease!”

“No? OK.” Cupped her breasts and rubbed at her nipples, so that when she thrust up off his cock she was pushing into his hands.

“James…” Threateningly; but he grinned at her again, stroked his thumbs over the soft underside of her breasts, wet with sweat, and ran his hands around her torso to her back, where he stroked them down to her ass and slid his fingers between her cheeks, rubbed over her anus. “God,” she burst out. “I –“

“No?”

“Yes.” Imagine how full she’d be, his fingers and his cock inside her, how helpless and how exposed and how safe, because it was him.

“Christ alive,” he said, strangled, and caught her waist with his left hand, pulling her back up to his chest; she cried out, laughing, mostly for show, because he could manhandle her one-handed and it made her hot. Being pressed against his body heat again was scorching, overwhelming. Her breasts were aching and her thighs shook, a little, and while she hid her face in the crook of his neck and fought to get her breathing under control he wet his fingers with her slick and rubbed at her anus again, ever so gently, coaxing her into opening for him, stroked her until she was relaxed and easy and his.

“Gonna come for me, Tasha?” he murmured into her hair, his left arm tight across her back, holding her still while he played with her. “Gonna give it up for me, sweetheart? Drives me wild how greedy you are. Keep you on my cock till Judgment Day, watch you use me till you pass out. Tell me what you want, and I swear to god I’ll give you it.”

“This,” she said, panting harsh against his neck, desperate to move, her hips twitching helplessly, tiny little movement back and forth between his cock and his fingers. “This, this, always, god, James…”

She heard the sheets rustle; then he bucked up into her, and she cried out with the suddenness and the ferocity of it. Natasha clutched his shoulders and moved to meet him, laughing as they chased each other into ecstasy.

+++

On the morning of the fourth day Natasha pulled back from a long and leisurely good morning kiss as soon as his hands cupped her ass, and for an instant that ugly little voice came back, but she kissed the tip of his nose and said, “I really want you, but I’m sore as hell.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around her shoulders instead and brushed apologetic, contrite kisses over her upturned face. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” she said, wriggling about. “I need you to stop being so fuckable.”

Where was all that morning-after shyness now? In the trash, where it belonged. Natasha hated being afraid: she threw herself all the harder at the things that scared her, just to show you. Bucky had forgotten that, on that first day. He hid a grin.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Lies.” She flashed her dimples at him, and he went in to kiss them. “ _James_.”

Hmm. She was sweet and warm and pliant in his arms, and the way she was moving against him was… suggestive. “How sore is sore? Lemme touch you.”

“Oh, should I.” But she was biting her lip and laughing, and pressed even closer to him.

“C’mon up.” Bucky sat her on the counter, grinning, and pushed her nightdress up her thighs, spread them gently. “Just your clit.” He stroked the root of it till she was flushed and moaning, his fingertips wet with her slick, and then drew circles over the swollen little nub, slow and wide at first, smaller and quicker as her breathing came faster and her thighs trembled, her breasts heaving under the thin cotton; he wanted to soak it sucking on her tits, but if her cunt was sore her breasts probably would be, and he went to kiss her tense lovely mouth instead, until her body jerked in quick beautiful spasms and her mouth was slack with pleasure.

“Thank you,” she said, mock-primly, and kissed him when he grinned. “Anything I can do for you, Sergeant?”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” he said, and braced his hands on the countertop as she stroked him, harder and firmer than she had that first morning in the shower, so that he was there in no time, shuddering and blissful, and only her legs around his waist were keeping him upright.

God, he’d probably ruined this t-shirt. What the hell. They kissed for long sweet minutes, soft lazy things with no intent but closeness, till Natasha’s stomach grumbled and breakfast became a pressing issue. Bucky went to change his shirt, and when he got back she was pouring beaten eggs into a saucepan and humming to herself.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Hmm? Orange juice?”

“Yes, please. I’ve been thinking – what are we gonna tell the others?”

“Uh,” said Bucky. “Oh.” Of course. They were headed back tomorrow evening. He’d forgotten. What an idiot he was. What _would_ they tell the others? He couldn’t picture himself standing in that chrome and claustrophobic superhero palace and announcing to everyone that he and Tasha had spent the last five days fucking each other silly; because of course they would all realise what they’d been up to here, the two of them. But he wanted to kiss her in public and date her openly… _Tasha Romanov loves the man I’ve made of myself_. That alone was a kind of redemption.

“What were you thinking of telling them?"

“It’s just that whatever we say I really don’t want to tell them about Before,” she explained. He could hear the capital letter she gave the word.

“Christ. No. Neither do I.” Before was theirs alone, both the peace it had brought them and the heartbreak. He set the table absent-mindedly, chewing on his bottom lip.

“But I thought, when we’re on call again in May, we could, you know.”

“Subtly let them know?”

She sniggered at him. “My darling, subtlety is not your strong point.”

“Hey. I manage.”

“Half the time running missions with you is like bringing a Panzer tank to a knife fight,” she said.

“Nah, that’s Steve.”

That made her laugh out loud, and Bucky stole a kiss, sighing.

“But speaking of Steve, I gotta tell him first.”

“Of course,” she said. “We’ll have him over for dinner and explain everything.”

“Sounds good.”

+++

The flight back home was hellish. Business class, admittedly, but hellish: side by side in a cramped narrow space for ten hours without being able to do more than cuddle was beyond Natasha’s powers of – of _anything_. Five days with James had made her a wanton, needy, addicted mess. She wanted his skin on hers and his hot breath on her neck and the noises he made when he came. She wanted his cock inside her, and the long line of his throat exposed to her hands, and the way his body lay lax under her hands: the most dangerous man she knew, hers. It made her dizzy to think of how much trust he’d given her this week.

He brought their joined hands up to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, startling her out of a reverie. The cosy little safehouse in her mind’s eye faded, and she was back to staring at a plastic table and the back of someone else’s head.

“You OK?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Natasha shifted and put her head on his shoulder. “Are you?”

“Yes.” She found the simple monosyllable impossibly charming.

“Let’s get pizza first thing,” she said. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me too.”

But Steve was there to meet them at the airport, and suddenly they were having dinner with him and Sharon and Sam and Wanda, and then drinks and dessert, and before Natasha quite knew what was happening she found herself, pleasantly buzzed but unpleasantly alone, outside her apartment building, and he was twelve blocks away with Steve instead of here in her arms.

It was fine. It was fine. Natasha had just had five days with him, and tomorrow they would meet, and be together, and it was fine. It was fine.

This litany lasted up four floors to her front door, into the bathroom, through cleaning her teeth and brushing her hair, undressing and putting her nightdress on, and into bed, where it finally fizzled out some thirty minutes after she’d lain down.

No. It wasn’t fine. It was impossible. How had he done this to her, and why wasn't she terrified of it? Because if she ran away from it now it would only get worse, probably. She’d thought the flight was bad; at least they had still been alone, and together. In disgust she threw the covers back and climbed out of bed – in three minutes she was dressed and at her front door, zipping her boots and cursing to herself about handsome and talented not-so-ex-boyfriends and the way they screwed with your head and made themselves indispensable to your mental well-being and comfort. Bastards.

But if it wasn't the same for him - maybe he would laugh at her, or be impatient - was she being a fool? For long moments she paused with her hand on the doorknob, listening to the sound of her own breathing, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. Then she thought, _better to know either way_ , and flung the front door open.

James was standing on the other side, hand raised to knock. The moment their eyes met his face broke open into a look of boyish delight that Natasha knew instantly and instinctively would never be seen by anyone but her.

Fireworks went off in her chest, spinning Catherine wheels of joy that made her dizzy.

“I couldn’t sleep without you,” he said.

“I was just coming to you,” she said. Then she blinked and he shifted and she was in his arms again, finally, finally, after how many hours, safe and warm against that hot strong body. He seemed tense, so she held him fiercely tight and nuzzled at his neck till she felt him relax. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head gently back to look at him, and he kissed her just as the automatic light in the hallway clicked off because they had been standing still for too long. Natasha barely noticed – she was kissing James, and the rest of the world could go hang. At last he lifted her up, his hands on her ass, and Natasha wrapped her legs around his waist, flailing for the door to slam it shut as he carried her inside.

“You still sore?” His eyes were bright with mischief.

“No,” she said, touching his mouth, gasping softly when he parted his lips and took her fingertips in, sucking them gently. “Oh,” she said blankly, flashing to that clever mouth on her breasts, her cunt, and James hummed a little, self-satisfied.

“Which way’s the bedroom?”

“That way,” she said vaguely, and wrapped her arms around his neck as he walked into her apartment.

“Like your bookshelves.”

“Raid them later,” she said. “Ravish me first.”

“Baby girl, once I _put_ you in that bed we’re _staying_ in it. For the next two weeks.”

“Forever. God, dinner was agony, I couldn’t take my eyes off your mouth.”

“I noticed… kept imagining just standing up and laying you out over the next table, kneel down and lick you till you scream for me.” Her own imagination had had them in the relative privacy of the bathroom, but whatever... Reaching her bedroom, he put out a hand to close the door, and when it clicked shut Natasha sighed.

“There.”

“I love you,” James murmured, putting a knee on the bed and laying her down gently.

“I know,” she said, and caught his lapels before he could stand up to strip, pulling him down for a kiss. “I love you too.”

+++

“I feel a little bad,” Natasha said, curling up next to him on the couch; she put her wine glass on the coffee table and leaned on his shoulder.

Bucky flexed his fingers, watching the way the leather of the gloves stretched and folded. “About the gloves? Why? They’re perfect.”

“But they’re really more of a present for me.” She grinned.

Hah. He turned to look at her, smiling, loving the soft, open, mischievous look she wore. “Natalia,” he said, picturing the soft black leather against her naked skin, the way she’d writhe and moan under his hands, “trust me, they’re not.”

 

 

 


End file.
